a short note in honour of & in memory of nymphomaniac von trier. artemisia absinthium

i thought, i will find a man, who will be able to unearth it from me. will cut out, kill off, gnaw. will leave my body to the last bruise, force my hands, block my thighs, wound my lips and kick off, bigheartedly takes it off from me. cold bitch, which will only fuck, brutalizing cheaply, as cheaply as possible, a prince on a white horse, after all will stroke, will hug and tell, that will love me to the grave. and will rob me from myself, ruin me under my bones, to the bone marrow, like from świetlicki, to the marrow. and when he used me enough, and i'll forget my surname and how old i am, everything will open then and it come, it come, snatching me up, tearing me apart ferociously, wild and pure. and i will unspotted under my skin. immaculate. we will not roar anymore

Spaces between " big" works will be filled up with bestiary particles. It`s time to throw out my mind all subctutaneous beasty existences. When i come to one hundred, I will think about publishing the bestiary -].

środa, 22 kwietnia 2015

In the first version, Persephone
is taken from her mother
and the goddess of the earth
punishes the earth—this is
consistent with what we know of human behavior,
that human beings take profound satisfaction
in doing harm, particularly
unconscious harm:
we may call this
negative creation.
Persephone’s initial
sojourn in hell continues to be
pawed over by scholars who dispute
the sensations of the virgin:
did she cooperate in her rape,
or was she drugged, violated against her will,
as happens so often now to modern girls.
As is well known, the return of the beloved
does not correct
the loss of the beloved: Persephone
returns home
stained with red juice like
a character in Hawthorne—
I am not certain I will
keep this word: is earth
“home” to Persephone? Is she at home, conceivably,
in the bed of the god? Is she
at home nowhere? Is she
a born wanderer, in other words
an existential
replica of her own mother, less
hamstrung by ideas of causality?
You are allowed to like
no one, you know. The characters
are not people.
They are aspects of a dilemma or conflict.
Three parts: just as the soul is divided,
ego, superego, id. Likewise
the three levels of the known world,
a kind of diagram that separates
heaven from earth from hell.
You must ask yourself:
where is it snowing?
White of forgetfulness,
of desecration—
It is snowing on earth; the cold wind says
Persephone is having sex in hell.
Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t know
what winter is, only that
she is what causes it.
She is lying in the bed of Hades.
What is in her mind?
Is she afraid? Has something
blotted out the idea
of mind?
She does know the earth
is run by mothers, this much
is certain. She also knows
she is not what is called
a girl any longer. Regarding
incarceration, she believes
she has been a prisoner since she has been a daughter.
The terrible reunions in store for her
will take up the rest of her life.
When the passion for expiation
is chronic, fierce, you do not choose
the way you live. You do not live;
you are not allowed to die.
You drift between earth and death
which seem, finally,
strangely alike. Scholars tell us
that there is no point in knowing what you want
when the forces contending over you
could kill you.
White of forgetfulness,
white of safety—
They say
there is a rift in the human soul
which was not constructed to belong
entirely to life. Earth
asks us to deny this rift, a threat
disguised as suggestion—
as we have seen
in the tale of Persephone
which should be read
as an argument between the mother and the lover—
the daughter is just meat.
When death confronts her, she has never seen
the meadow without the daisies.
Suddenly she is no longer
singing her maidenly songs
about her mother’s
beauty and fecundity. Where
the rift is, the break is.
Song of the earth,
song of the mythic vision of eternal life—
My soul
shattered with the strain
of trying to belong to earth—
What will you do,
when it is your turn in the field with the god?

I am surprised, that i bring out tales of birth just right now. After so many years, when my belly shouldn`t remember already nothing. But everything is like yesterday. this intrusive feeling of separation from own flesh. It is lying abandoned, ripped, unneeded, spreading itself on bed, on my nightdress and on the floor.

Birth is a magical moment. Liminal. At the night, when i gave a birth to daughters, dreams with deads haunted me. Strangers and those, which remained inside my cells. Old women in nightdresses, lost patients, curious eyes of ancestors, animals left on the street for a slow agony moved along my hospital room.

Last times i`m focused on Flemish still lifes, La Grande bouffe, Baroque metaphysical poetry, a physiognomy of birth. Something inside me whispers, that it`s right time. This is the first work in the series

In my dream, i tasted delicious. Panthers with shiny eyes crowded around me, touch of their furs dulled the consciousness of inevitable becoming the meal and their breathes were mesmerising. Above, situated on tables, wardrobes, dressers, standing, kneeling, crouching people were looking at this scene, which part i was. I felt like inside these dreams, when you are naked walking out on the street, or when you didn`t put on your panties and you have just realised that you are in a translucent nightdress.

New Year on my blog is officially opened.Miniature form of exlibris, its "literariness" lets me to be wordy in its borders, with what i have to be careful during working with proper drawings and paintings, and which i am not able to discard completely. Bon appetit